The actors are at hand, and by their show
You shall know all that you are like to know.
Midsummer-Night’s Dream.
“You know, probably, sir, that my late lord was twice married; by his
first wife he had three children, only one of whom, the youngest, though
now the present earl, survived the first period of infancy. When Master
Francis, as we always called him, in spite of his accession to the
title of viscount, was about six years old, my lady died, and a year
afterwards my lord married again. His second wife was uncommonly
handsome: she was a Miss Talbot (a Catholic), daughter of Colonel
Talbot, and niece to the celebrated beau, Squire Talbot of Scarsdale
Park. Poor lady! they say that she married my lord through a momentary
pique against a former lover. However that may be, she was a fine,
high-spirited creature: very violent in temper, to be sure, but generous
and kind when her passion was over; and however haughty to her equals
charitable and compassionate to the poor.”
“She had but one son, Master Clinton. Never, sir, shall I forget the
rejoicings that were made at his birth: for my lord doted on his second
wife, and had disliked his first, whom he had married for her fortune;
and it was therefore natural that he should prefer the child of the
present wife to Master Francis. Ah, it is sad to think how love can
change! Well, sir, my lord seemed literally to be wrapped up in the
infant: he nursed it and fondled it, and hung over it, as if he had
been its mother rather than its father. My lady desired that it might
be christened by one of her family names; and my lord consenting, it was
called Clinton. (The wine is with you, sir! Do observe that it has not
changed colour in the least, notwithstanding its age.)”
“My lord was fond of a quiet, retired life; indeed, he was a great
scholar, and spent the chief part of his time among his books. Dr.
Latinas, the young gentleman’s tutor, said his lordship made Greek
verses better than Dr. Latinas could make English ones, so you may judge
of his learning. But my lady went constantly to town, and was among the
gayest of the gay; nor did she often come down here without bringing a
whole troop of guests. Lord help us, what goings on there used to be at
the great house!--such dancing and music, and dining and supping, and
shooting-parties, fishing-parties, gypsy-parties: you would have thought
all England was merrymaking there.”
“But my lord, though he indulged my lady in all her whims and
extravagance, seldom took much share in them himself. He was constantly
occupied with his library and children, nor did he ever suffer either
Master Francis or Master Clinton to mix with the guests. He kept them
very close at their studies, and when the latter was six years old, I
do assure you, sir, he could say his Propria quae maribus better than I
can. (You don’t drink, sir.) When Master Francis was sixteen, and Master
Clinton eight, the former was sent abroad on his travels with a
German tutor, and did not return to England for many years afterwards;
meanwhile Master Clinton grew up to the age of fourteen, increasing in
comeliness and goodness. He was very fond of his studies, much more
so than Master Francis had been, and was astonishingly forward for his
years. So my lord loved him better and better, and would scarcely ever
suffer him to be out of his sight.”
“When Master Clinton was about the age I mentioned, namely, fourteen, a
gentleman of the name of Sir Clinton Manners became a constant visitor
at the house. Report said that he was always about my lady in London
at Ranelagh, and the ball-rooms and routs, and all the fine places; and
certainly he was scarcely ever from her side in the pleasure parties
at the Park. But my lady said that he was a cousin of hers, and an old
playmate in childhood, and so he was; and unhappily for her, something
more too. My lord, however, shut up in his library, did not pay any
attention to my lady’s intimacy with Sir Clinton; on the contrary, as he
was a cousin and friend of hers, his lordship seemed always happy to see
him, and was the only person in the neighbourhood who had no suspicion
of what was going on.”
“Oh, sir, it is a melancholy story, and I can scarcely persuade myself
to tell it. (It is really delicious wine this-six-and-twenty years old
last birthday--to say nothing of its age before I bought it.) Ah! well,
sir, the blow came at last like a thunderclap: my lady, finding disguise
was in vain, went off with Sir Clinton. Letters were discovered which
showed that they had corresponded for years; that he was her lover
before marriage; that she, in a momentary passion with him, had accepted
my lord’s offer; that she had always repented her precipitation; and
that she had called her son after his name: all this, and much more,
sir, did my lord learn, as it were, at a single blow.”
“He obtained a divorce, and Sir Clinton and my lady went abroad. But
from that time my lord was never the same man. Always proud and gloomy,
he now became intolerably violent and morose. He shut himself up, saw no
company of any description, rarely left the house, and never the park;
and, from being one of the gayest places in the country, sir, the
mansion became as dreary and deserted as if it had been haunted. (It is
for you to begin the second bottle, sir.)”
“But the most extraordinary change in my lord was in his conduct to
Master Clinton: from doting upon him, to a degree that would have spoilt
any temper less sweet than my poor young master’s, he took the most
violent aversion to him. From the circumstance of his name, and the long
intimacy existing between my lady and her lover, his lordship would not
believe that Master Clinton was his own child; and indeed I must confess
there seemed good ground for his suspicions. Besides this, Master
Clinton took very much after his mother. He had her eyes, hair, and
beautiful features, so that my lord could never see him without being
reminded of his disgrace; therefore whenever the poor young gentleman
came into his presence, he would drive him out with oaths and threats
which rang through the whole house. He could not even bear that
he should have any attendance or respect from the servants, for he
considered him quite as an alien like, and worse than a stranger; and
his lordship’s only delight seemed to consist in putting upon him every
possible indignity and affront. But Master Clinton was a high-spirited
young gentleman; and, after having in vain endeavoured to soothe my lord
by compliance and respect, he at last utterly avoided his lordship’s
presence.”
“He gave up his studies in a great measure, and wandered about the
park and woods all day and sometimes even half the night; his mother’s
conduct and his father’s unkindness seemed to prey upon his health and
mind, and at last he grew almost as much altered as my lord. From being
one of the merriest boys possible, full of life and spirits, he became
thoughtful and downcast, his step lost its lightness, and his eye all
the fire which used once quite to warm one’s heart when one looked at
it; in short, sir, the sins of the mother were visited as much upon the
child as the husband. (Not the least tawny, sir, you see, though it is
so old!)”
“My lord at first seemed to be glad that he now never saw his son, but,
by degrees, I think he missed the pleasure of venting his spleen upon
him; and so he ordered my young master not to stir out without his
leave, and confined him closer than ever to his studies. (Well, sir, if
it were not for this port I could not get out another sentence.)
There used then to be sad scenes between them: my lord was a terribly
passionate man, and said things sharper than a two-edged sword, as the
psalms express it; and though Master Clinton was one of the mildest and
best-tempered boys imaginable, yet he could not at all times curb his
spirit; and, to my mind, when a man is perpetually declaring he is not
your father, one may now and then be forgiven in forgetting that you are
to behave as his son.”
“Things went on in this way sadly enough for about three years and a
half, when Master Clinton was nearly eighteen. One evening, after
my lord had been unusually stormy, Master Clinton’s spirit warmed, I
suppose, and, from word to word, the dispute increased, till my lord, in
a furious rage, ordered in the servants, and told them to horsewhip his
son. Imagine, sir, what a disgrace to that noble house! But there was
not one of them who would not rather have cut off his right hand than
laid a finger upon Master Clinton, so greatly was he beloved; and,
at last, my lord summoned his own gentleman, a German, six feet high,
entirely devoted to his lordship, and commanded him, upon pain of
instant dismissal, to make use in his presence of a horsewhip which he
put into his hand.”
“The German did not dare refuse, so he approached Master Clinton. The
servants were still in the room, and perhaps they would have been
bold enough to rescue Master Clinton, had there been any need of their
assistance; but he was a tall youth, as bold as a hero, and, when the
German approached, he caught him by the throat, threw him down, and very
nearly strangled him; he then, while my lord was speechless with rage,
left the room, and did not return all night. (What a body it has,
sir--ah!)”
“The next morning I was in a little room adjoining my lord’s study,
looking over some papers and maps. His lordship did not know of my
presence, but was sitting alone at breakfast, when Master Clinton
suddenly entered the study; the door leading to my room was ajar, and I
heard all the conversation that ensued.”
“My lord asked him very angrily how he had dared absent himself all
night; but Master Clinton, making no reply to this question, said, in
a very calm, loud voice, which I think I hear now, ‘My lord, after the
insult you have offered to me, it is perhaps unnecessary to observe that
nothing could induce me to remain under your roof. I come, therefore, to
take my last leave of you.’”
“He paused, and my lord (probably like me, being taken by surprise)
making no reply, he continued, ‘You have often told me, my lord, that I
am not your son; if this be possible, so much the more must you rejoice
at the idea of ridding your presence of an intruder.’ ‘And how, sir,
do you expect to live, except upon my bounty?’ exclaimed my lord. ‘You
remember,’ answered my young master, ‘that a humble dependant of my
mother’s family, who had been our governess in childhood, left me at
her death the earnings of her life. I believe they amount to nearly
a thousand pounds; I look to your lordship’s honour either for the
principal or the yearly interest, as may please you best: further I ask
not from you.’ ‘And do you think, sir,’ cried my lord, almost screaming
with passion, ‘that upon that beggarly pittance you shall go forth to
dishonour more than it is yet dishonoured the name of my ancient house?
Do you think, sir, that that name to which you have no pretension,
though the law iniquitously grants it you, shall be sullied either
with trade or robbery? for to one or the other you must necessarily
be driven.’ ‘I foresaw your speech, my lord, and am prepared with an
answer. Far be it from me to thrust myself into any family, the head of
which thinks proper to reject me; far be it from me to honour my humble
fortunes with a name which I am as willing as yourself to disown: I
purpose, therefore, to adopt a new one; and, whatever may be my future
fate, that name will screen me both from your remembrance and the
world’s knowledge. Are you satisfied now, my lord?’”
“His lordship did not answer for some minutes: at last, he said
sneeringly, ‘Go, boy, go! I am delighted to hear you have decided so
well. Leave word with my steward where you wish your clothes to be sent
to you: Heaven forbid I should rob you either of your wardrobe or your
princely fortune. Wardour will transmit to you the latter, even to the
last penny, by the same conveyance as that which is honoured by the
former. And now good-morning, sir; yet stay, and mark my words: never
dare to re-enter my house, or to expect an iota more of fortune or
favour from me. And, hark you, sir: if you dare violate your word; if
you dare, during my life, at least, assume a name which you were born
to sully,--my curse, my deepest, heartiest, eternal curse, be upon
your head in this world and the next!’ ‘Fear not, my lord: my word is
pledged,’ said the young gentleman; and the next moment I heard his
parting step in the hall.”
“Sir, my heart was full (your glass is empty!) and my head spun round
as if I were on a precipice: but I was determined my young master should
not go till I had caught another glimpse of his dear face; so I gently
left the room I was in, and, hastening out of the house by a private
entrance, met Master Clinton in the park, not very far from the spot
where I saw you, sir, just now. To my surprise there was no sign of
grief or agitation upon his countenance. I had never seen him look so
proud, or for years so happy.”
“‘Wardour,’ said he, in a gay tone, when he saw me, ‘I was going to your
house: my father has at last resolved that I should, like my brother,
commence my travels; and I wish to leave with you the address of the
place to which my clothes, etc., will be sent.’
“I could not contain any longer when I heard this, sir: I burst into
tears, confessed that I had accidentally heard his conversation with
my lord, and besought him not to depart so hastily, and with so small
a fortune; but he shook his head and would not hear me. ‘Believe me, my
good Wardour,’ said he, ‘that since my unhappy mother’s flight, I have
never felt so elated or so happy as I do now: one should go through what
I have done, to learn the rapture of independence.’ He then told me to
have his luggage sent to him, under his initials of C. L., at the Golden
Fleece, the principal inn in the town of W----, which, you know, sir, is
at the other end of the county, on the road to London; and then, kindly
shaking me by the hand, he broke away from me: but he turned back before
he had got three paces, and said (and then, for the first time, the
pride of his countenance fell, and the tears stood in his eyes),
‘Wardour, do not divulge what you have heard: put as good a face upon my
departure as you can, and let the blame, if any, fall upon me, not upon
your lord; after all he is to be pitied, not blamed, and I can never
forget that he once loved me.’ He did not wait for my answer,--perhaps
he did not like to show me how much he was affected,--but hurried down
the park, and I soon lost sight of him. My lord that very morning sent
for me, demanded what address his son had left, and gave me a letter,
enclosing, I suppose, a bill for my poor young master’s fortune,
ordering it to be sent with the clothes immediately.”
“Sir, I have never seen or heard aught of the dear gentleman since; you
must forgive me, I cannot help tears, sir--(the wine is with you).”
“But the mother, the mother!” said Clarence, earnestly; “what became of
her? she died abroad, two years since, did she not?”
“She did, sir,” answered the honest steward, refilling his glass. “They
say that she lived very unhappily with Sir Clinton, who did not marry
her; till all of a sudden she disappeared, none knew whither.”
Clarence redoubled his attention.
“At last,” resumed the steward, “two years ago, a letter came from her
to my lord; she was a nun in some convent (in Italy I think) to which
she had, at the time of her disappearance, secretly retired. The letter
was written on her death-bed, and so affectingly, I suppose, that even
my stern lord was in tears for several days after he received it. But
the principal passage in it was relative to her son: it assured my lord
(for so with his own lips he told me just before he died, some months
ago) that Master Clinton was in truth his son, and that it was not till
she had been tempted many years after her marriage that she had fallen;
she implored my lord to believe this ‘on the word of one for whom earth
and earth’s objects were no more;’ those were her words.”
“Six months ago, when my lord lay on the bed from which he never
rose, he called me to him and said, ‘Wardour, you have always been the
faithful servant of our house, and warmly attached to my second son;
tell my poor boy, if ever you see him, that I did at last open my
eyes to my error and acknowledge him as my child; tell him that I have
desired his brother (who was then, sir, kneeling by my lord’s side), as
he values my blessing, to seek him out and repair the wrong I have
done him; and add that my best comfort in death was the hope of his
forgiveness.’”
“Did he, did he say that?” exclaimed Clarence, who had been violently
agitated during the latter part of this recital, and now sprang from
his seat. “My father, my father! would that I had borne with thee more!
mine, mine was the fault; from thee should have come the forgiveness!”
The old steward sat silent and aghast. At that instant his wife entered,
with a message of chiding at the lateness of the hour upon her lip, but
she started back when she saw Clarence’s profile, as he stood leaning
against the wall.
“Good heavens!” cried she, “is it, is it,--yes, it is my young master,
my own foster-son!”
Rightly had Clarence conjectured, when he had shunned her presence.
Years had indeed wrought a change in his figure and face; acquaintance,
servant, friend, relation,--the remembrance of his features had passed
from all: but she who had nursed him as an infant on her lap and fed
him from her breast, she who had joined the devotion of clanship to the
fondness of a mother, knew him at a glance. “Yes,” cried he, as he threw
himself into her withered and aged arms, “it is I, the child you reared,
come, after many years, to find too late, when a father is no more, that
he had a right to a father’s home.”